


The Blood of the Covenant

by amusewithaview



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Gen, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Pack Family, Pack Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 15:56:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11293935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusewithaview/pseuds/amusewithaview
Summary: ...is thicker than the water of the womb.Being the story of how the Inquisitor chose her Pack, and they, in turn, chose her right back.The first time Dorian meets the Herald, he is battling for his life.  He’s not sure what he expected out of this woman, about whom rumors swirl like a rather expensive cloak, but he hopes she’ll hear him out, he only wants tohelp.  Dorian hurls lightning at a Terror demon and tries not to think of this fight as an audition.As soon as the battle is over he finds himself with an armful of tiny alphaaggressivelyscenting him.“You get used to it,” the dwarf offers.





	The Blood of the Covenant

The first time Dorian meets the Herald, he is battling for his life. He has a moment to glance her way and register the gobsmacked look on her face as she stares at him before he is greeting her in his own inimitable style and then she and her companions join the fray. He’s not sure what he expected out of this woman, about whom rumors swirl like a rather expensive cloak, but he hopes she’ll hear him out, he only wants to _help_. Dorian hurls lightning at a Terror demon and tries not to think of this fight as an audition.

As soon as the battle is over he finds himself with an armful of tiny alpha _aggressively_ scenting him.

He looks over the top of her head to see her companions watching with expressions that vary from amusement (the dwarf) to resignation (the human), and even disapproval (the elf). Dorian does his best to convey to them his utter bafflement with this situation with his eyes alone. The alpha is now leaning up on her tiptoes, bracing her hands – which are still clutching demon ichor-stained daggers – against his chest the better to press her _entire face_ against his neck.

“Pay up, Chuckles,” the dwarf says. “I told you she was being antsy for a reason.”

The elf’s ears flick down and his lips purse as he fishes a few coins from his belt. “I had hoped that it was merely a reaction to the chronometric distortion in the Veil, but it seems you are correct. I will not bet against you in the future, Varric.”

“A _Tevinter_ ,” the human woman – a Templar of some stripe, judging by her armor – breathes in horrified disbelief. “Herald, are you sure-?”

The Herald chooses that exact moment to press her face a little more firmly into his skin, open her mouth and delicately set her teeth against his pulse. She does not bite down, but the intent – the _proposal_ – is so obvious that he feels sparks running down his spine. She pauses there, waiting for a moment, but when he makes no move to accept or reject her implicit offer, she backs down and away with a shake of her head.

Her brown eyes are too large for her face and make her seem even younger than she is. She blinks a few times, frowns at their surroundings, and then blanches. Her face screws up like she’s tasted something unsavory and she pivots to face her fellows. Dorian feels a moment of unreasoning panic that she is offering him her _back_ , what has he done to deserve this trust from a strange alpha he has just met? _Vishante kafas_ , they all still have their weapons drawn!

“I did it again, didn’t I?” she asks with the resigned tone of one who is well acquainted with embarrassment.

“So it would seem, Herald,” the Templar woman says.

The Herald turns to face him again, biting her lip and staring up at him through her eyelashes. “ _Please_ tell me you want to join the Inquisition.”

“That was my intent, yes-“

“Oh, thank the Maker,” she sighs, tension immediately dropping from her shoulders. She wanders off then, muttering something to herself about ‘keeping them all in one place’ as she picks through the demonic detritus, apparently looking for something of value.

Dorian turns back to her companions and this time they are all wearing expressions of fond amusement.

“You get used to it,” the dwarf, Varric, offers.

* * *

Dorian does not get any time to ‘get used’ to the Herald. He is absorbed into her little group before he knows what’s happening and bundled off to Haven to present his knowledge to the leaders of the Inquisition. After _that_ , he barely gets a moment to catch his breath before they are racing back to Redcliffe to spring the trap that Alexius has so carefully prepared for them. He is caught up in the whirlwind that is Andie, the so-called ‘Herald of Andraste.’ At her insistence, he drops the title and uses her given name, though it sets off an echo of the prickle he felt earlier. He ignores it as best he can.

He does manage to parse a few more truths from the rumors as they travel. _Yes_ , the Herald did fall out of a Rift in the Fade. _Yes_ , she was undifferentiated, despite her age, and did not manifest as an alpha until after the Breach had been sealed. _No_ , she has not been claimed by any of the noble families of the Free Marches, disregard the hearsay and her distinct accent. _No_ , she is not accumulating a feral pack that will overrun all of Thedas.

It’s this last rumor that seems to make the key members of the Inquisition the most uncomfortable. Apparently Dorian’s experience with the Herald is not remotely atypical. She has expressed a formal interest in nearly a dozen people since she woke an alpha, and there seems to be no rhyme or reason to her instinctive claims. Two elves, a dwarf, a Qunari, mages, rogues, warriors, nobles and commoners alike have been invited into her personal Pack. She has even scented two packless _alphas_ , both far older and more experienced than she. None have accepted her yet, but they orbit her at all times. Even without formal bonds, it is clear that she is their center.

It’s a puzzle, but not one Dorian is given time to consider, much less solve, before they reach Redcliffe again and then-

_And then._

Time travel was something he had theorized with Alexius, but it was meant to stay just that: a theory.

The reality blows past shocking and straight into horrifying. The world has changed. He can feel the _wrongness_ distorting everything, the mad song humming in the back of his mind. He can _smell_ it. Death and despair so thick he has to clear his throat before he can say anything, not that he gets out more than a syllable before the Herald is pushing him aside and engaging the two soldiers who’ve noted their ‘arrival.’

She is snarling and feral, she tears through them like a wolf through a flock of chickens. The instant they are down she whirls on him, herding him against the nearest wall and patting him down for injuries. Her hands are gentle but thorough, sweeping over his shoulders and chest as if she fears he might shatter if she presses too hard. There is a high-pitched whine escaping her lips, barely audible, and her eyes are huge with concern.

Dorian is not entirely sure what to do in the face of this much _care_.

“We-” she says after a moment, licking her lips and swallowing repeatedly, like there is something stuck in her throat, choking her. “We have to get out of here, we have to _go back_.”

She backs away and turns to inspect the room they have appeared in, moving to divest the two soldiers of anything valuable. Yet it is obvious that she is always keeping an eye and an ear on him. He doesn’t think she truly hears a word of his speculation regarding what has been done to them and eventually he trails off. What does it matter, after all? Regardless of the who or the how, they will need more information to figure out a way to return.

“I’ll protect you,” he says, and it’s monumental, it’s too big, he can’t take that back. He’s never said anything like that before in his life, not so baldly, not so _sincerely_. Even with that horrible _wrongness_ shrouding everything, saying that… feels _right_.

She grins at him, bold and full of teeth. “ _I_ will protect _you_ ,” she tells him. It doesn’t feel like a rejection of his offer, it feels like a promise, a covenant between them.

_Is this what Pack is meant to be?_

Sparks skitter down his spine again and he follows her from the cellar. He thinks, in that moment, that he might follow her anywhere.

* * *

When they find Fiona, he sees the first crack in Andie’s fierce façade.

Her voice is steady, soothing, as she asks the woman the basics – _What has happened? How long has it been? What have they **done to you?**_ – but her hands are trembling against the bars of the cell and she breathes shallowly. She slips a small knife from her boot when they are done and carefully reaches through the bars to give it to the older alpha.

“The poison on the blade will make you sleep,” she says.

_Hopefully you won’t wake up again_ , hangs in the air between them.

There is nothing more that they can do for her now. They leave.

As soon as they are out of sight of the cell, Andie turns to Dorian again, pushing up against him not like she wants him to give way before her, but like she needs something – some _one_ – to support her. Instinct guides him to lift his hands, rest one on her back and use the other to guide her face to his neck. It takes nearly five minutes before she stops gulping in his scent.

Abruptly, Dorian remembers a lullaby he once heard a slave singing to a child. He does not recall the words, can only just bring up a brief part of the refrain. He hums what he can remember, makes up what he cannot, and holds Andie until she is ready to stand again. If the front of his armor is damp when he releases her, well, it is not blood and therefore it is nothing to be concerned over.

Things become dramatically worse when they find the others.

Both The Iron Bull and Sera have been tainted by the corrupted lyrium. That horrible, maddening _hum_ emanates from them in bone-rattling waves. Their eyes are filmed with red and their voices twist in their throats, in the air, a discordant jangle that makes Dorian want to flinch away. They would not appreciate his pity and yet it is all he can offer these strangers, people he would have fought with, _should_ have fought with, _will_ fight with if he has his way.

Andie seems to feel no such hesitation. It is only Bull’s upraised hand that keeps her from leaping upon him when his cell door swings open.

“No, Boss,” he says gently. “If you’re gonna go back and you’re gonna fix this mess, you can’t take any of this crap with you. And it _sticks_ to you, Boss, it’ll grab you up and never let go if you come too close.”

She _whines_ , high and pleading. Her hands are wringing together, eyes glassy with tears. She’s shaking again, worse this time. “ _No_ ,” she begs the solemn Qunari. “We can fix this, we can fix _you!_ You’ll be okay, Bull. You’ll be _okay_.”

“I will,” he agrees, cracking his neck, “soon as you hand me a sword and point me at those bastard Tevinters.” His eyes flick up, amusement breaking through the red haze and showing Dorian a brief glimpse of the blue beneath. “No offense,” he says.

“None taken,” he assures. He’s not feeling too charitable towards his countrymen at the moment.

Sera greets them with a filthy diatribe, hanging on the bars of her cell and rattling at her cage like an angry monkey. “If you’re real, then _you’re late_ ,” she says crossly, once she’s finished cursing them, their ancestors, and Dorian’s pretty sure he heard something about a druffalo in there. “If you’re _not_ real, then _piss off_.”

“We’re real,” Andie assures her, hands shaking so badly by now that it takes her twice as long to unlock the door.

Sera stares at her fixedly the whole time, and Dorian watches as a multitude of expressions cross the elf’s face. First anger, then annoyance, frustration, resignation, and finally something softer: the fondness that the Herald seems to inspire oh so easily. By the time the door has been opened, she’s almost smiling. “Good to see you though, innit? Thought you were a goner and, well, you _were_ gone, but it’s good you’re back again. What’s the plan?”

“Fix this,” Andie says hoarsely.

“How?” Sera demands.

“However we have to.” The two women lock eyes then, and Dorian’s not sure what is communicated in the exchange but at the end of it Sera’s shoulders have squared, new determination in her face and Andie… Andie is clearly struggling not to cry. Her jaw is clenched and she’s graduated to clutching at her daggers. He can’t tell if that’s to keep her hands from shaking or from reaching out to her doomed companions.

When they find Leliana, Andie breaks down completely.

The moment the woman is released, Andie is in her arms, clutching her close and frantically patting every inch of her she can reach. She no longer whines, but the bitten off sounds of stifled sobs are somehow _so much worse_. For one fraught moment, a hard expression crosses Leliana’s face and Dorian fears she will shove Andie away. The moment passes, and instead the redhead relaxes into the hold, resting her own face against the slight alpha’s shoulder and breathing her in.

Eventually, Leliana pushes away, holding Andie at arms length so she can stare into her eyes. Her face has softened dramatically in the past few minutes, but her voice is steely: “This _cannot come to pass_. You will go back and you will keep this terrible future from happening.” She brushes one hand over Andie’s damp cheek, wiping away the tears. “The Maker has asked you to walk a difficult road, but you are surefooted and strong. I will help you.”

It’s not quite a declaration, but Andie seems to stand straighter, with more purpose, all the same.

Between the five of them they kill everything that so much as looks at them. They find the shards, open the door, and there’s Alexius, so much older and more broken than when Dorian last looked on him – one year or three hours ago, depending on how one counts time. Felix is there, but the creature that crouches at Alexius’s feet is not the Felix he remembers. He raises no protest when Leliana silently slips behind what is left of his old friend.

The knife she draws across Felix’s throat is too bright, too _real_ in this twilight world of horrors and madness. Dorian throws himself into the battle and the magical working that comes after with single-minded intensity. They must go back. They must fix this. This cannot happen. This will not be the end.

And it’s not.

The throne room is as they left it, pristine and unchanged.

_So much_ has changed.

* * *

Dorian hovers at Andie’s left shoulder, always within reach, until they make camp that night in a ruin halfway between the Crossroads and Haven. The majority of the mages are with them, only the elderly, young, and infirm left behind while wagons are arranged.

He can easily discern those who have previously dealt with Andie from those who have not. Those who know her at all are tiptoeing around, watching her with worry. Those who do not know her seem not to notice her strained silence and faraway stare. The Iron Bull and Sera are in the former group, and both of them are watchful, concerned but cautious. They are so different from the counterparts Dorian met, and it makes sense but at the same time he wants to grab them by the shoulders and shake them. Can’t they _see?_ Don’t they _understand?_

There are, shockingly, no objections when he follows Andie into her tent for the night. He settles cross-legged at the foot of her bedroll and pulls her down so she sits facing him at its head. Her eyes are still far away but her hands tighten on his, gripping him till he swears he can hear his bones creaking.

“What I said in that ghastly place still stands,” he tells her. “If you’ll still have me-“

Andie is staring at him, her mouth making an ‘o’ of shock. The tears that have come and gone from her eyes for the last few hours reappear and spill down her cheeks. He has a moment to worry that he has misread things somewhere, that this is _not_ what she needs, and then she tackles him.

Dorian curses and she giggles, worming her way up his body till she can shove her face against his neck, scenting him so thoroughly that he feels drunk off her: elfroot and sweet oil and sweat and sadness, sun warmed skin and leather and the tang of metal. She sits up after a bit and slides to one side so she is crouched beside and not on top of him. He watches as she brings his left wrist to her mouth and he does not flinch when she _bites_.

Afterwards, he pulls her into his lap, her back to his front with his left arm resting across her knees, held steady between her hands. Together they watch the teeth marks warp and twist across his wrist, sliding up to his elbow and down to loop over his middle finger before climbing onto her right hand and up her arm to form a perfect mirror image. Andie’s Pack Mark – he is not the first she chose but he is the first to _choose her back_ and that _means_ something – is a purple so dark its almost black. In it, he sees stars and flowers, books and bottles, and hidden at the inside of his wrist a raven perched on the shoulder of a fox.

“It’s beautiful,” Andie whispers, fingers delicately tracing over the raised wing.

“It’s _us_ ,” Dorian says, and presses his face into her hair.

If the back of her head is damp when he releases her and they curl together to share the bedroll for the first time as _Pack_ …

Well, it is not blood and therefore it is nothing to be concerned over.

**Author's Note:**

> Like, love, loathe? Let me know!


End file.
